I'll always protect you
by kelark59
Summary: A series of snapshots into the lives of Sherlock and Mycroft, brothers trying to grow up around each other and failing miserably at the 'growing up' part.


Mycroft peered up over the fence, his babysitter yelling for him to get down before he hurt himself. He grinned as his parents pulled up in the driveway. The babysitter pried the dark haired seven year old off of the fence.  
"Why don't we go swing on the play set?" she asked, and he sighed but allowed himself to be dragged to his wooden play set.  
He had the same babysitter all the time because very few people were willing to drive into the country to babysit, although the occasion was rare that both of his parents had to leave him behind. The birth of his new baby brother or sister was one of those occasions. He was bouncing with excitement to meet the new baby.  
"Mummy says that if the baby is a girl, her name is going to be Marigold Fae Holmes, and if the baby is a boy, his name is going to be Sherlock Artemas Holmes. But she says it's gonna' be a long time before the baby is old enough to play and that for now I have to be quiet and careful with the baby," he chattered mindlessly to the elderly woman pushing him on the swing.  
His father came out into the yard and smiled at them, their big dog running to greet him. His father stopped to scratch the dog's ears lovingly.  
Mycroft ran up and his father pulled him into a hug. Daniel Holmes was not an overly affectionate man, although not aloof by any means, just reserved. After two days without seeing his son however, he deviated from that a bit.  
"Let's go get your hands washed and then you can meet the new baby, okay?" He turned to the babysitter. "Your money is on the counter, thank you so much for doing this. Erm... Violet probably won't let you in to see the baby just yet, I apologize."  
"I have kids, I understand... thank you," she shrugged. He nodded and took Mycroft in, helping him wash his hands. Afterwards he directed him upstairs to the baby's newly painted nursery.  
Violet stood over the crib watching the newborn baby sleep, and Mycroft was thrilled to see that it was a boy, the crib padded with blue.  
"Sherlock?" he asked quietly. Violet smiled and nodded. Mycroft grinned. He was already getting ideas; visions of showing Sherlock his favorite books, teaching him to play games and sports, and of the pranks they could pull on others together, pranks they could pull on each other.  
"I love you, Sherlock, and I'm always gonna' take care of you," he said, gently touching the baby's forehead with two fingers.  
_

"Mummy, Mycroft took my Jelly Babies!" Sherlock wailed, beating his little two-year-old fists against the carpeted floor.  
"Myke, what happened to the caramel melts you picked out? I bought you each a box of candy, don't take each other's," Violet called from upstairs.  
Mycroft chuckled and pointed to the blocks on the floor, spelling out Sherlock's name. He saw that the toddler wasn't paying a spot of attention, and sighed, tossing the blocks back into the toy box. It was difficult because Mycroft was a genius. He grew bored easily with the average people he was surrounded by. His jaw dropped as Sherlock waddled to the toy chest, took out several blocks, and spelled B-L-A-N-K-E-T. He then proceeded to drop his fuzzy bear blanket on top of the blocks, grin like mad at his nine-year-old brother. He then plopped back down on his butt to continue staring mindlessly at the television.  
"Mummy!" Mycroft yelled, running for their mother. She, of course, did not believe him.  
"Myke, are you trying to tell me that a toddler, who can barely pronounce his full name, can identify written words?" she asked while Sherlock pouted.  
"I do, Mummy! See!" He took out more blocks and spelled B-R-O-T-H-E-R pointing to Mycroft. Her eyes widened.  
"You... you can spell? Can you read?" she asked, and he nodded excitedly. She took the blocks and placed them to say, It is sunny. Sherlock blinked at the words.  
"Sunny! Sunshine! We go play?" he asked, tugging on her sleeve. She chuckled in disbelief.  
"Well, Myke, looks like you're not the only little genius around here," she said, taking the boys outside to play in the sunshine.  
_

Sherlock was six years old and Mycroft was thirteen when Sherlock declared that he wanted to be a pirate.  
"I will sail on a ship, I will steal treasure from less competent pirates, and I will be known throughout the world as Captain Sherlock Holmes, the first and only great pirate," Sherlock declared, looking up from the book in his lap.  
"What are you reading?" Daniel asked and Sherlock blinked.  
"Lord of the Rings," he replied as Mycroft laughed lightly.  
"It was a good trilogy. You know, most pirates die young," he warned, and Sherlock shrugged.  
"In any career where my logic and reasoning skills are put to proper use, I am more likely to die young," he countered.  
Mycroft shrugged. "Well, I see your point, Sherlock."  
"MYCROFT JAKOB HOLMES," Violet screamed from the living room, and Mycroft darted out of the kitchen to go see what his mother was on about. Sherlock followed suit, of course. The brothers were rarely separated despite the fact that they couldn't get along to save their lives. "What is this?" she demanded, holding up a bowl of developing tadpoles that had been growing under the television.  
"Mummy, I can truthfully tell you, this time, it was not me," Mycroft huffed, and Sherlock brightened.  
"Oh, it's an experiment, Mummy, isn't it lovely? I found them in the pond! I want to count how many days it takes them to grow!" Sherlock said with delight, clapping his hands.  
She stared at him and groaned. "Sherlock, my pet, if you want to learn about frogs I will take you to the library and you can get a book about their life cycle!" she told him, and he blinked and cocked his head.  
"Well, but... what if the books are wrong? Or lying? The only real way to be sure is to have my own frogs and count," he said stubbornly.  
She took a deep, long suffering breath. "Take them outside. You may continue this experiment in the sandbox." She thrust the plastic punch bowl of pond water at Mycroft. "Help him with that. I need an aspirin... or a whiskey." she muttered before slinking into the kitchen to join her husband.  
Mycroft helped him dig a trench in the sandbox and set the bowl in it.  
"How many days so far?" Mycroft inquired, and Sherlock scrunched up his face in doubt that his brother actually cared.  
"They hatched six days ago," he informed his brother happily, despite questioning the older boy's motives.  
"There are no frogs on pirate ships," Mycroft told him, and Sherlock stared.  
"Good, I hate frogs," he said shaking his head. Mycroft raised his brows.  
"Then why on earth do you care how long they take to mature?" he asked incredulously, and Sherlock blinked.  
"I was curious," he defended, and Mycroft shrugged.  
"Oh, I understand the feeling, I'm often curious about everything and everyone. I never bother with things I hate," he told his brother.  
Sherlock nodded. "I do that with people. It's why I will not speak to anyone outside our family," he said distastefully.  
Mycroft tossed his head back and laughed in surprise. "That's why? I wondered!"  
_

As soon as Mycroft turned eighteen he fled their parents' house to go to Oxford. Eleven-year-old Sherlock didn't feel as if he would ever completely forgive him for that. He stayed in his room for eight days. He locked the door, ate at night, and Daniel and Violet didn't really know when he went to the bathroom. They assumed he did that at night too.  
"Sherlock? Dearest?" Violet tentatively knocked on his door on the ninth day. There was a muffled grunt from inside, and she turned the knob to find that it clicked in her hand. He was facedown on his bed, wearing pajama pants and a baggy sweatshirt that either belonged to Daniel or Mycroft, because it certainly hung on his lean frame.  
"Oh, darling, I know you miss him, I do too, but Oxford is only a drive away. He'll be home in six months for Christmas, this isn't healthy behavior," she pleaded.  
He didn't lift his head.  
"He left me behind, Mummy. He went away and he left me here alone. I can't forgive him for that," he mumbled, almost inaudible thanks to the thick quilt.  
She rubbed his back, running her fingers through the dark curls so identical to hers.  
"Sherlock Artemas Holmes, how wholly ridiculous you are being! Myke went off to university, he's not dead," she scoffed, and he turned to stare at her.  
"What happened to trying to console and comfort your youngest child?" he demanded, and she shrugged, a sly smirk on her painted ruby lips.  
"It wasn't working for me, so I decided at least verbal abuse might get you to look at me with those pretty baby blues... your father's eyes, you and Mycroft both have them," she said.  
He blinked and buried his head into her lap.  
"Mummy, what am I going to do?" he wailed.  
She crossed her arms. "First of all, take a shower, you stink. You're going back to school tomorrow, whether you already know twice as much as the teacher or not, you have to attend. Then when Mycroft comes you two are going to yell and fight and glare at each other and then when he leaves you'll miss him again for a year until he comes home for Christmas. Then you repeat until you go off somewhere to college too; some untold exclusive private university that only you had the brains to get into. And finally the two of you can both move to London and bother each other on a daily basis forever. But in the meantime, you are taking a shower," she finished.  
_

Mycroft straightened his suit jacket and ran a hand carefully through his hair as Anthea and Dr. Watson disappeared once again. Had to check this soldier out, make sure he was good for Sherlock. After all, Mycroft had promised to take care of the boy, so many years ago standing over his crib as a seven year old. He couldn't back out of that promise now, thirty-six years later. He was still there when Anthea returned and pressed a light kiss to his lips.

"Your brother is a sweet little boy," she said, and he snorted.

"Not really," he protested. She sighed.

"Alright... that Watson, he was flirting with me," she sighed as he smiled.

"Ah, forget that, he belongs to Sherlock, I assure you," he snorted. She grinned.

"Twenty five pounds says they're dating by the end of the year?" she offered.

"Oh, Annie, I'd put at least fifty on the end of the month," he laughed stringing their fingers together and sliding into the car with her.

"He seems different around Watson, did you notice? He seems..." she trailed off, looking for the right word, and he grinned.

"Happy?" he offered and she nodded.

"Happy," she agreed.


End file.
